


Ebb & Flow

by Synchron



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Sex, Lazy Mornings, Morning Sex, gentle affirmations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29143719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: "Credo." The sound of his name forces him to look back up at you; a habit that he struggles to break even now when an Order no longer exists. It's faint, only the barest upward tick of each corner of your lips, something sad and wistful and hopeful all at once, but you smile. "Stay in with me. That's your job today."
Relationships: Credo (Devil May Cry)/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	Ebb & Flow

**Author's Note:**

> So I may or may not have forgotten that I even wrote this sljkdhf. As a somewhat hidden project, it kind of fell to the back of my mind after I was finished with it, but as I was reorganising my gdocs, I was like "oh hey", so here it is.
> 
> This was my first time writing anything with any kind of imposed limitation; keeping it under a specific word count was harder than I thought, since I have a severe case of NEVER SHUTS THE FUCK UP disease 🤣🤣 I promise I don't talk much at all IRL, but in writing, I just... can't seem to stop, it's all run on sentences ahoy. Having a beta comb through for grammatical mishaps was also new to me. But it was fun, and a great experience nonetheless!!
> 
> Hope you like it. 🙏💖

When Credo opens his eyes, the room is still dark, air thick with the musk of the previous night's lovemaking. It was a rough, toe-curling, desperately blissful affair, lasting for hours and hours, yet still didn't seem long enough. Still didn't seem _enough_ . But all is still now, quiet and peaceful; a pocket of time that he can't keep from slipping through the cracks, because a faint orange glow outlines the perimeter of the curtains hanging over the windows, indicating the sun has risen on another day. A _new_ day. Yes… _every_ day is new to him now, foreign and uncharted. Perhaps once he might have been wary of this rudderless ship, and where it'll drift from here, but then you hold his hand, or you smile, or you just _look_ at him, and he finds he doesn't really care _where_ he ends up, only with _who_ .  
  
Movement out the corner of his eyes draws his attention from the ceiling, from his own thoughts - there must be a crack in the seal of the window somewhere, because a breeze, gentle and faintly warm, billows the fine gossamer material, allowing one golden beam of light to filter through the gap. His steely eyes follow it back across the room where it lands on your bare shoulder as you lie curled next to him, still sleeping soundly. He watches you for a short moment, listens to your breaths - soft and slow, deep and gentle - enjoys the tranquility, the stillness, the peace of your form for a minute longer than he really ought to be. With a new day, comes new responsibilities. New tasks. Even in such an uncertain future, old habits and old routines die hard, and the work of Fortuna's former Supreme General is never done.  
  
Breathing out a soundless sigh, Credo begins to pull back the covers.  
  
"Stay."  
  
Your voice is far clearer than someone who was only recently roused from slumber would be, and that tells him that you've been up for perhaps as long as he has. Credo props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you nestled at his side; your eyes are still closed, and if you didn't just speak, he'd be convinced you were still fast asleep.  
  
"Did I wake you?" he asks gently, voice still croaky and clinging to the last vestiges of fatigue. Or does the gravel perhaps come from the strenuous workout from several hours ago?  
  
Your eyes do open now, in one languid motion, not at all encumbered by weariness. "You did." You can see the corners of his lips settle into a familiar frown, can already see the crease between his eyebrows begin to deepen, so you head him off. "I'll forgive you if you stay a little longer."  
  
His expression does lighten somewhat at that, chest warming at the sentiment, but he doesn't settle back next to you. "There's still much to be done, I can't–"  
  
"You can't, or you won't?"  
  
"Can't."  
  
Credo leaves it simply at that, pulling back the covers and shedding the warmth of your shared space. His feet have barely touched the floor beside the bed when he feels a weight on his back, and the radiant heat of your still sleep-warm skin pressed against him. Your arms wind around his midsection and he turns his head just in time to meet you halfway when you press a kiss to his jaw.  
  
"Stay." You try again, softer this time with your cheek against his back; an embrace that is just as gentle as your words. "Repairs on the city are almost finished - they won't miss you if you show up late once. Just once."  
  
Underneath your chin, underneath the weight of your love, Credo's shoulders sag. "I have a duty to this city to uphold." The hoarse quality of his voice has faded now, but it lacks that authoritative edge. That conviction. It's the tone he takes on whenever he's with you; not weak, but merely gentle.  
  
He feels your fingers caress at the skin on his abdomen, tracing the long scar etched deep into his flesh - a permanent reminder of an old and broken faith. There are days he swears it still hurts.  
  
"No…" you murmur quietly into his shoulder, whispering the words directly into his skin, "your duty to the city, as the Supreme General of the Holy Knights, came to an end the day you got this scar." You lift yourself from his back, letting the tips of your fingers dip into that old wound one final time before you move on, skirting around it to follow each curve and divot of his abs as your arms unwind from around him. You skim your palms up his back, feeling tight muscles shift underneath your hands, teeming with new tension. And here you thought you'd worked out several of those knots last night…

Shimmying around him with a soft rustle of bedsheets, you swing one of your thighs over both of his, settling into his lap. Soft hands find the hard angles of his cheeks, and you guide his face until he's looking at you. "You've paid your dues. You don't owe Fortuna anything anymore."  
  
But you can tell he isn't convinced from the way his eyes dart away from yours, gaze falling upon anything that isn't you. So you lean forward and press your forehead against his, fingers fanning out over his cheeks to anchor him in place.  
  
"Credo." The sound of his name forces him to look back up at you; a habit that he struggles to break even now when an Order no longer exists. It's faint, only the barest upward tick of each corner of your lips, something sad and wistful and hopeful all at once, but you smile. "Stay in with me. That's your job today."  
  
There's a stretch of silence after that, a delicate moment where you're not certain if he'll obey, where he's just staring into your eyes so intently and desperately, searching for the only truth that he'll let himself fall into now; a new religion that rests within your body and soul. And eventually, you feel his large hands settle on your bare hips, shy and oddly inexperienced, even though his fingertips ease back over the marks he'd imprinted into your skin only a few hours ago with those very hands.  
  
He doesn't respond to the soft kisses you pepper upon his lips at first, but the walls he dutifully builds back up everyday always come back a little lower, a little more relenting, and soon, his lips are moving against yours. There aren't any more words spoken after that, only quiet sighs and shared breath as the kiss' chastity dissolves and becomes something a little more desperate, reminiscent of what transpired on this very bed not long ago. It's no accident when you roll your hips to meet with his, your core grinding up against his length - already half hard - and being met with a breathless gasp right into your mouth.  
  
Your hand ghosts down his side, fingertips grazing that scar again, before dipping even lower to delicately wrap your fingers around his cock, giving it one long, full pump from base to tip. Credo shudders under your hand, even though his don't remain idle; one slides around you, following the natural curve of your body downwards past your ass and into that sumptuous valley between your legs where he rubs idly, stoking and rekindling a fire that never truly burns out whenever you're together. His fingers occasionally slide past your folds, teasing at your entrance with fleeting touches while you continue to stroke his cock to life. Somewhere along the way, the kiss is broken. Who by, neither of you can say for sure, but you're suddenly muffling quiet mewls into his neck when the pads of two fingers _do_ slip inside you. You feel more than hear his soft groan at how wet you already are, until he realises that hot, wet sensation that sticks to his fingers isn't solely your arousal, but a combination of your slick and his cum from several hours ago, and that's when you feel him throb in your hand.  
  
Withdrawing his fingers from inside you, Credo spreads your folds open until the milky fluid oozes out in abundance, creating a new stain on sheets already - _still_ \- soaked in shared sin. The remainder he smears onto your skin when he cups two handfuls of your ass again; it's instinct as much as it is preparation and anticipation. You prop one hand upon his chest while you rise up on your knees, forehead resting on his shoulder as you gaze down at what you're doing. You guide his cock, still not fully hard, though you know he will be when he sheathes himself inside you, towards your entrance until his blunt and flushed tip nestles comfortably within your folds. You feel his hands slide upwards from your ass, taking with them a cooling trail of mixed fluids that you shiver against. They follow the natural curve of your body until they sit at the base of your spine where his fingers fan wide once more. But he doesn't pull you down onto him, nor does he buck impatiently to seek your wet heat. Credo waits. Feels the way your body works while you sink onto him like a gentle tide, tranquil and slow, until your hips are flush, and he can feel you everywhere.  
  
Like an old prayer, the only one you'll ever bother with again, you whisper his name into his skin, your palms skimming his body, over every scar and every promise not kept until they cradle his face again. And there, staring into eyes that soften and then yield, you accept every single one of his perceived failures in a kiss so gentle and forgiving that something in his chest physically aches. All of his tensions, even the ones he thought he'd already let go of, but perhaps _especially_ those, drain from him, limb by limb, and he lets himself be folded into your arms.  
  
This is far from the first time he's indulged in your flesh, and even further from the last, but all the same, his heart races. Not from the sound of your voice, or the smooth feel of your skin beneath his calloused hands, or your twitching heat that had welcomed him so readily, stretching around him in such a way that makes it feel like the first time, every time; his pulse pounds in his ears, hard enough to make his head spin, because of how softly and slowly you take him. It's a far cry from the lovemaking of last night; it's neither rough, nor needy, nor is it helpless moans puffed into pillows while you grip them for dear life. No, your hips roll in slow waves, urging him inside you so deeply, so sweetly, bodies pressed together so tightly that the memory of your shapes are seared into each other's skin like a brand. It's _that_ very notion that sets his senses ablaze, makes his cock pulse inside you, and his breath catch in his throat.  
  
If he's honest, even though he loves your desperate keens and the way your hands reach for him in the darkness, feels an immeasurable pride when you moan his name, it's this tenderness above all else, that drives him mad in all of the best ways.  
  
Credo watches you as you work up to a soft rhythm, rising and falling to the beat of hearts. Notes the look of concentration upon your face, and how it's so subtly tinted in your pleasures; it hides in the crease of your brow, and in the plush swell of your lips pinched between your teeth. It colours your cheeks until your complexion takes on a warm glow that he'd like nothing more than to be able to spend all day with...  
  
Though he supposes he can, today, can't he?  
  
When you release a soundless sigh, one that he can feel shudder your entire frame, Credo seizes the temporary parting of your lips, leaning forward to catch your lips in another kiss, tongues weaving and entwining while he commits even the flavour of you to his memory. If he's going to add one more sin to the pile today, an extra, indulgent stroke of decadent guilt, then he will milk it for all its worth.  
  
There are many things he's given up in the past year; his title; his authority; his old way of life; but his tenacity and persistence will never fade.  
  
" _Credo_ –" you moan his name against his temple, hips rocking and swaying a little faster now. The intimacy of his cock pressing into you in shallow thrusts is affecting you too, evident in the squeeze of your thighs at his sides, but you don't let your fervor reach that fever pitch. The madness of last night doesn't belong here in this quiet moment, where an old bed frame creaking under gentle motions is the loudest sound in the room. When the pleasure builds, steadily, but oh so surely, you both know it isn't founded upon carnal desires, but rather, something deeper and so much more fulfilling than a mindless lust.  
  
It's your turn to watch him when, with a touch of his forehead against yours, eyes sliding closed with a pensive concentration, he cums with a groaned whisper of your name. His husky timbre that makes your walls flutter around his cock, squeezing and clenching while he fills you with burst after burst of his warm seed. It's undoubtedly spilling from within you at this point; you can both feel it oozing out onto your thighs, stretching thin webs between your bodies. But it's a welcome heat that envelopes him in warmth, where he lets himself drift upon your tides, in and out, until he too fades.  
  


* * *

  
  
When Credo opens his eyes, the room is warm and bright from an afternoon sun, the air pleasantly cool against his sleep-warm skin. The curtains have been pulled back, and the window is wide open, inviting a soft breeze upon which he can smell the ocean. Sitting at his side, perched on the edge of the bed and wearing one of his old shirts (he doesn't fail to notice it's half unbuttoned), you welcome him to the waking world with a gentle smile. And then, with another creak of the bed, you lean forward and lightly press your thumb between his eyebrows, as if to smooth out the skin there.  
  
"That crease is gone," you remark idly, tone playful, yet still so mild, "and you're looking more rested already. We should do this more often."  
  
Credo smiles, and eases himself up onto his elbows, body feeling so light despite the physicality of the past half a day, or the fact that this is the first time he's stayed in bed past midday. "We should," he muses, a hand extending to curl his fingers around your arm, pulling you down onto him. He leans up, tilts his head, his smile stretching just a little wider when you lean down and meet him halfway to let him mumble against your lips.  
  
"You did say this was to be my job today."


End file.
